


Love's Toughest Work

by shmende



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), The King (2019), Timothée Chalamet - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Break Up, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Love, Post-Break Up, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:28:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23360968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shmende/pseuds/shmende
Summary: Four years after meeting in college, now famous actor Timothée and Manhattan School of Music graduate Delilah try to navigate their painful breakup and what comes after. A story about grief, romance and the hardship of forgiving.
Relationships: Timothée Chalamet/Original Character(s), Timothée Chalamet/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	1. Chapter One: Scene I - Now

Delilah‘s phone shook in her hands as a muffled voice said something along the lines of Next Stop: 79th Street. She dropped her head against the grimy subway window; the bang was dull and of medium loudness, quieter than a pair of metallic scissors dropping on a concrete floor and without any shrill echo or after waves, but harsh enough that she had to wince. Most of all, it attracted the attention of the vaguely unconscious looking old man next to her. As he turned his face towards her in a slow, mechanic manner, almost like he had never seen anyone feel or felt anything himself at all, she wondered about his biggest regret in life. Could it have been lying to his parents? Choosing a career over love? Saying words he never meant; or even worse, never saying the words he truly meant? With his scarce hair and sheer skin, it seemed like there was nothing protecting his skull, leaving his brain open and vulnerable, penetrable for anyone who bothered to worm their way inside. But who could this old man have left to bother?  
A coldness swept down Delilah‘s arms, goosebumps followed. She decided that it didn’t matter. Nothing really mattered, if she thought about it. Her stop was gone and she would be alone tonight, as usual. Her mother always said that it was her own fault. That she’s a coward. She thought that maybe it just never was the right time or the right place, but then again, what she regretted most in life were the times where she blamed circumstance for her own inability to act.  
So what if he didn’t show up tonight?  
She watched the slight nuances of darkness passing by on the outside of the windows and pressed herself tighter into the leathery subway seat. It had become moist from her sweat and she longed for the rocky private beach in Maine that belonged to her father. Maybe it didn’t matter if she went home tonight. Maybe him not showing up never required her presence.  
So, she didn’t get off at the next stop to take a subway home, or the stop after that or the stop after that. She stayed inside the train and let her phone glide through her fingers, putting it into her bag only to take it out mere moments later, unlocking it and mindlessly switching between the homescreen pages. She took a sip from her lemonade and grimaced at the ugly-sweet taste of it, the damage it caused her teeth and the irritation it brought upon her gums, the memories stirred up by the horrendous notes of citrus.  
She knew that it didn’t have to be this tough, that it was easy for many other people. But the notions of lemon and tangerine pulled at her skin and twisted it inside out and apart. She hated her habit of selfish nostalgia and her desire to take it all back, her naivety for presuming that the last year could have been rewinded within one single day when, in reality, lemonade would always be a blemished artifact from past times and he would not show up tonight.  
The voice announced the next stop and waves of people flowed out of and into the wagon. She toyed with the thought that, maybe, she felt so bad about herself because of the smell of sweat and summer, because she felt insecure in her skirt and blouse and inadequate in life itself. Maybe it was because all her life seemed so lived already, like all the mysteries had been figured out, all the choices made, and now everything that was left were the consequences of her actions playing out and repeating, repeating, repeating.  
She stared at the old man’s reflection in the opposite window. He stared back without any vigor or intentionality. He simply was, just like she wished to simply be. But there was that taste of citrus, the advertisements on the subway, the assignments and due dates, there were her brother and sisters, her silent phone, the uncomfortable tightness of the sandals that she had bought on sale last week. The endless flings and meaningless conversations, horrid breaking news and the unforgiving heat. How could anyone just be when the air was stifling, water was lemonade, love turned into neglect, yes meant no and I will call you meant I won’t?  
The train stopped and she abandoned the lemonade on her seat before she tumbled outside, the old man’s judgement weighing on her shoulders. Or had he even noticed? A little stream of sweat ran down the side of her nose as she made her way through the crowd but she was too insecure to wipe it away. There was more sweat gathering on the back of her legs, down her arms and along her spine, running and passing like waves on a beach, ebbing and flowing. She was fine with leaving a trail. Maybe he would follow behind and find her, make her stay with him and bring her a refreshing drink.  
Her phone vibrated the moment she left the station and reached natural sunlight. It was her mother, asking if he had called yet. She told her not to stress it and, just for a second, allowed herself to imagine it:  
Her phone would vibrate just like it had a minute ago, displaying an unknown number but she would recognize it. She knew his number by heart, had written it down to remind herself that she could call him if she wanted to. She had scribbled it into countless pages of her notebooks, sometimes out of boredom, other times because she missed him. Finally, she would answer with a simple ‚hello?‘ and they’d probably be silent then, waiting for the other to start. She would panic and pretend that the connection was breaking before hanging up.  
She thought of her friend Francis, who had just taken over her very first own psychotherapeutic practice, and had this to say:  
„He will call you, that’s a given, because he’s always done that, and he‘ll ask how you are and why you’re not home. You’ll say that you’ve been loitering around doing god knows what to avoid him while the poor boy has been waiting at your door for hours! Then you’re going to ask why he didn’t bring his key to wait inside and he‘ll say that that isn’t the point because the point is that you’re doing it to him again. You’re always doing something to him because he’s a fucking cheeseball and you can’t bear to be happy.“  
Francis had stared at her accusingly.  
„I’m the one who can’t be happy?” Delilah asked.  
Francis replied that he at least tried to be.  
„So do you think he’s happier now? Because he isn’t with me anymore?“  
Francis had pursed her lips, saying that she didn’t know.  
Delilah looked at her feet in the new sandals. They were red and swollen and they hurt. She guessed that there was no way that he wasn’t happier now. And then she saw it: his tears dropping into the bathtub, sliding down the light blue ceramic and mixing with the lukewarm water. It had been three months after their second anniversary.  
Delilah tried to suppress the wetness in her eyes as she walked down the Boulevard. She didn’t really know where she was because she’d only moved to New York five years ago and never gotten off at this stop before. The street was lined by brick buildings with fire escalators of black steel. She was somewhere in midtown Manhattan but it looked like Brooklyn. It occurred to her that she was doing exactly what Francis had predicted, loitering around somewhere doing god knows what to avoid him, except that Tim wouldn’t be waiting at her door. In fact, she had found his keys to her apartment in her postbox two months ago. He was done with her.


	2. Chapter One: Scene II & III - Now

She was sitting in her usual seat in the lecture hall like any other Wednesday afternoon. It was late June and end of term exams were scheduled for next month. She took intent notes as Mr. Humperdinck, Professor for Music Theory, spoke about what would be relevant for the exam. Mr. Humperdinck looked a lot like his grandfather Engelbert, who, significantly, was not the legendary sixties pop singer, but the German composer famous for the 1893 opera ‚Hänsel und Gretel“. Mr. Humperdinck made sure that every single student of his knew this. Other than that, he was one of the more pleasant Professors at the Manhattan School of Music. He‘d even recommended Delilah to his favorite local theatre when she had told him that she couldn’t afford a new cello bow. She had made cupcakes for him as a thank you, but he’d said that he was diabetic and would give them to his wife and grandson instead. She had liked that idea and Mr. Humperdinck spoke to her about his grandson’s harsh disregard for any “decent” musical career. Humperdinck Jr. Jr. wanted to become a rapper. Delilah replied that Humperdinck Jr. Jr. would, in fact, be a fantastic name for a rapper. She‘d been very relieved when her professor reacted with a hearty laugh.  
That had been four and a half years ago. Delilah squeezed her eyes shut at the thought of having to leave this campus next month and tried to remember the feeling of arriving here, of starting and being surrounded by newness. New York City instead of her sleepy hometown in northern Maine, student housing instead of her dad’s estate at the beach and nine million people instead of the same three hundred.  
Exploring New York had a special place in her heart. Everything had been beautiful and never seen, every new pizzeria the best on earth and every subway fuller than the last. She thought about Timothée and his endless recommendations, always delighted by being one of the few native New Yorkers in their group of friends.  
Mr. Humperdinck had dismissed class and Delilah was the last to pack her things together and get up. Ever since she was a graduate student the courses had become smaller and smaller, some of them only attended by ten to twenty people. This was one of those.  
“Ms. Belmont, please.” Mr. Humperdinck waved at her.  
She took placid steps to his desk.  
Mr. Humperdinck was seventy-two and diabetic but he looked full of life with his flat stomach, rich hair and attentive eyes. Delilah had studied his vita on the faculty’s website and she’d been floored. He was born and raised in Germany, immigrated to the US in 1968, studied music at Julliard and went on to play the violin, viola, tuba and trombone at the Boston and New England conservatory until he had settled down to teach in 1997. Delilah gave him an expectant glance.  
“Yes, Sir? Can I be of help?”  
He motioned for her to sit down, saying ‘please’ once more, then, “Ms. Belmont, you know that you are a very valuable student to our institution.”  
He looked at her over the rim of his glasses, assuring her of his good intent. Delilah nodded hesitantly.  
“Your efforts and accomplishments here and outside of this school have been nothing short of impeccable. And, off the record,” He lifted his hand to his mouth, pretending like he was telling a secret. “I’ve not only taken a liking to your work but to you as well.”  
Delilah’s hands became sweaty and she offered a bashful smile. It felt wrong somehow, hearing this professor whom she admired so much talk about her like that. “Thank you, Professor. I really like you too.”  
Mr. Humperdinck laughed. “Thank you, Ms. Belmont. Trust me, I am honored to hear that, and, even more honored to offer the following to you.”  
The corners of his mouth turned upwards, Delilah could tell that he was trying not to seem overly enthusiastic, and he slid a folder across the desk. There were scarcely any words on the first page, but it looked like a title.  
Marriage Story.  
Delilah looked at it, confused.  
“It’s a script. For a film.”  
Delilah still didn’t really understand and asked, “Can I?”, before she took a hold of the folder.  
Her professor shrugged. “Sure, it’s yours. Except,” he spoke louder than before and Delilah locked eyes with him again. He lifted his pointer finger as if about to say something of incredible importance, opened a drawer to his left and rummaged through it. Delilah started to get exasperated with his obvious stalling. He mumbled an apology and opened two other drawers before he finally found what he’d been looking for: a sticky note with a telephone number on it. Delilah opened her mouth to ask something, but Mr. Humperdinck beat her to it.  
“This is the number of my friend and colleague Randy Newman. You see, Ms. Belmont, Randy’s looking for innovative and visionary people to create the soundtrack for this film and, as you are my best student and graduating this summer, I showed him your coursework from the last semesters and suggested you for the job. It’s yours if you want it.”

Chapter One: Scene III - Now

Once she had finished college, she paid rent by playing the cello full-time at her local orchestra and spent her free time at her apartment, inhaling the script to Marriage Story. So far, she had spoken to Randy three times, once when she called him right after her conversation with Mr. Humperdinck, a second time to talk about details and schedules and a third time to confirm that she was getting the job. Everything else was coordinated with the producers and their assistant. She had thanked Mr. Humperdinck with sugar free vanilla cupcakes and extra sweet chocolate and cherry cupcakes for his family. They’d hugged and shed a few tears at the graduation ceremony; he had even offered first-name basis. Afterwards, Francis had arranged a small party at her practice and they’d gone out for a few drinks.  
Three days later she was packing for two weeks in Maine and another week in Los Angeles with her brother. She was starting to feel a lot better these days, ever since it had become obvious that Timothée wouldn’t bother contacting her. At first, she thought that she’d mixed up the dates, but she had looked at her old planner from a year ago and located the torn edges of paper where the day should’ve been. She had ripped out the Page Of and filled out none of the pages afterwards, so there was no way that she’d messed up the maths. On May 31st last year, they had agreed to check up on each other on the same date a year later because they cared about each other and they’d been positive that they still would in the future, that they’d never stop caring. They had either been very, very right or completely wrong. The silence was ambiguous, but Delilah decided it was for the better not to think about possibilities. Timmy had moved on and so had she. They weren’t just high-school graduates who had barely started getting a college education. They had actual lives now, with jobs. Timothée was on his way to becoming an infamous actor and Delilah worked for Randy Newman, multiple times winner of the Emmy and Academy Awards. An inspiration and a gateway.  
She had felt so stuck this last year, always waiting for something to happen, walking on eggshells in case she said or did something and it would get around to Tim. She didn’t date, didn’t canoodle, didn’t even really go out on the weekends. And if she did, it had been short-lived and followed by regret. Her life had been on hold, and it seemed so pointless now that the Day Of had passed without hearing from him. He was happy now, she was sure, and it was time to stop restricting herself.  
“On to the rest of life,” she thought at five am the next day, switching to the left lane to stay on the I-95 and putting on some Engelbert Humperdinck, legendary sixties pop singer.

Her father’s beach estate was a beauty with far more space than any other place that she’d been in since she moved to New York. It had a generous foyer with two mirroring flights of stairs climbing onto opposite sides of the gallery and as soon as she entered the foyer, she saw the backyard beach through the floor-length windows. Her dad greeted her together with Minnie, the family dog, and Mickey, the dog of her youngest sister, and a proud smile on his face.  
“Look at you, all grown up and successful! You’re making your mother and me very happy, Lil. You’ve always been my favorite, you know that, right?”  
Delilah laughed. “Just like every other kid of yours?”  
During the afternoon, housekeeper Ferdinand helped her unpack and she took a quick dip in the ocean, by which she meant walking along the shore and letting her feet get overruled by waves every now and then. She had dinner at her mom’s house, played with the son of her stepsister, who was technically her stepnephew, and went to sleep in her dad’s estate.  
The days passed like that, mornings and afternoons with her dad, evenings and nights with her mom’s family. Sometimes she recognized a few faces in town, old school comrades who had come back or never left, former teachers and acquaintances. When someone asked, she mostly just told them that she played the cello in a New York orchestra.  
Adrian called on the tenth day of vacation, telling her that he and his wife were going to pick her up from the airport.  
He had met Elizabeth at Columbia six years ago and gotten married four years later. Delilah attended the wedding with Timothée. That night, the two of them laughed off all the comments about being next in line, knowing that their relationship had already turned unstable and patchy, almost sour. Just a month later, they were history, and Delilah had called her brother immediately before Tim had the chance to tell Elizabeth’s sister.  
Many times Delilah wished for a simpler life, a life without muddled-up little details. It was Elizabeth’s party where they first met, and Elizabeth’s sister who’d been in love with him.  
Delilah told Adrian the time of her arrival and thanked him. Just as she wanted to say goodbye, he asked her to hang on in a way that, she presumed, meant that whatever he was about to say had been in the back of his mind for the whole duration of this phone call. That maybe it was the sole motivation of it.  
Her brother seemed nervous and she imagined him touching his own face, holding and squeezing it. “Listen, Lil,” he said. “You know how Lizzie is, right? She organized a surprise party for your birthday and even though I asked her not to, Anne’s bringing Tim. Lizzie said that Anne thinks it would be good for you guys to talk, but I’m pretty sure that’s a bad idea. I just wanted to tell you that you can say no. Say no and we will talk to her. It’s completely up to you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...first encounter with Timothée coming up soon...
> 
> Hope you enjoy so far :)
> 
> xxx  
> shmende


	3. Chapter One: Scene IV - Now

Delilah thought about it every day. What it would be like to see him again. They hadn’t talked in a year and three months, no word, nothing. She hadn’t wished him a happy birthday and neither had he, so what she didn’t understand was: Why now? They’d let the Day Of go by without anything, like it was a day like any other. She guessed that the silence hadn’t been that ambiguous after all. He just didn’t care anymore. But if he didn’t care, why would he try to sabotage her birthday?  
Someone must have told him that it wouldn’t matter to her if he came. But Timmy would know that that was impossible. Wouldn’t he?  
She tried not to overthink it. Whenever she could, she accompanied her dad to open houses, made small talk with his clients and marveled at the views, the galleries, the pillars and the floors. She studied Marriage Story a bit more and had barbecues at her mom’s house. Her step-sister came around sometimes to bring or pick up her nephew and the day before Delilah’s departure she finally stayed for dinner. Ruby’s husband had passed away last winter and it was a great tragedy, not only the death, but Ruby’s grieving for the months that followed. They talked about her therapy for a while, about her boss who had been a blessing so far and even given her a slight raise. But without a second income, she wouldn’t be able to pay the mortgage for a lot longer and have to sell the house. Delilah wanted to offer help, but she didn’t know how. She couldn’t speak in her father’s name.  
After dinner, she and Ruby sat outside on the terrace with a glass of wine, listening to frogs and cicadas, and Ruby asked about Delilah’s plans for her late twenties.  
“Well, no kids for now,” she answered with a teasing smile. Ruby had been married and pregnant before her twenty-fifth.  
“That’s fair. You’d need a man for that anyways,” Ruby replied, smiling mischievously.  
Delilah barked out a laugh. “I do need to work on that.”  
The next question hung between them, stuck in the air, written in the stars maybe, but Delilah feared that that was the wine speaking for her. Man. It was just a word, but she couldn’t help associating it with him. She thought about the conversation with Adrian. Her brother had sounded glum. Like he was already tired of talking about him. Delilah had asked if she could call back later, but she hadn’t.  
“Did you know that my new boss wrote the soundtrack for Toy Story? ‘You have a friend in me’ and so on? I’m sure you’ve heard it before.”  
Ruby shrugged. “I have a seven-year-old. Trust me, I’ve heard it.” She nudged Delilah’s shoulder and took a sip from her glass. “But still, you must have made quite the impression. You do know that we’re all super proud, right?”  
Delilah smiled. “I do, thanks. And you know that I love you, right? And that you can always call me no matter what.” She turned to look at Ruby, who was staring straight ahead at one of the garden lights. They tinged everything in a shrill white light that always took a few minutes to get accustomed to, and Delilah wondered how Ruby could bear to look at one directly.  
“You’re my sister, and you don’t have to go through anything on your own if you don’t want to or feel like you can’t, okay? Don’t forget that.”  
Ruby turned to lock eyes. Her pupils were small, even though it was dark outside. “Thank you, Lil. I love you too.”  
They were silent then and Delilah tried looking into a garden light as she sipped on her wine, but it hurt more than she’d anticipated and she had to glance away quickly. According to Ruby’s dad, who had been bothered about investing in atmospheric lighting by every member of the family, the lights were doing exactly what they were supposed to do: minimizing the risk of stumbling upon an animal or falling onto the stone. He didn’t care for impractical lighting or pointless embellishment. It made sense somehow, that her mom had remarried her father’s polar opposite.  
“Sometimes I think about all the stupid fights that we had. The nights that I made him sleep on the couch because he’d allowed our son something that I forbade when the both of us had no idea how to raise a goddamn child. Or when he’d forget to buy fresh bread after work.“ She paused. “One time he made an offhand remark about my mother and I was angry for weeks. And do you know the worst part about that?”  
Ruby looked at her with wide eyes, her pupils starting to get bigger again. Delilah was quite lost for words.  
“I don’t know. That he was right?”  
“Yes, of course he was fucking right!” Ruby said vigorously. “But I didn’t want to admit that. I wanted him to come crawling and apologize, which he did eventually, but I was such a bitch about it. And even if I hadn’t secretly agreed, who was I to make him apologize for his opinion? None of our vows said anything about having to say yes and amen to everything the other thought or said. But I insisted like a little kid.”  
“At least you two made up. That’s the important part, isn’t it?” Delilah watched Ruby’s sour expression, her eyebrows furrowed and lips forming a tight line. She couldn’t remember another time where Ruby had opened up like this.  
“Sure, I guess. I just wish that we hadn’t wasted our time like that. Fighting about something only to make up later. I nagged him about so many things because I was insecure, but he loved me. He truly did, and I wish I’d believed him more.”  
Delilah’s heart sank. She knew what she had to do.


	4. Chapter Two: Scene I & II - Then

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ....finally, a gentle interaction between Timothée and Delilah...

Chapter Two: Scene I -Then

It was a sunny Friday in June when a tall campus guide showed Delilah and nineteen other freshmen around the main performance venues, the Neidorff-Karpati Hall, the Gordon K. and Harriet Greenfield Hall, even the more traditional David A. Rahm Hall that was on the smaller size with its twenty-four seats but had a beautiful wooden lining on the walls and red Venetian curtains. They‘d already looked at the dining hall in the main building, a few of the main lecture halls and the student affairs office. Delilah was talking to another freshman when the guide announced that he would take them to the PJ & E Library in Anderson Hall next, which she later learned stood for Peter Jay and Evelyn Sharp, before they could either return to their dorms or participate in the Morningside Heights scavenger hunt.  
Delilah did not participate. She had only arrived in New York City earlier that day after driving through the night. Meeting new people could always wait till tomorrow, and she felt quite safe in her own personal bubble for now.  
Her dorm was small and the furniture out of date, but she was happy to have her own space. The only things that she’d brought were a month‘s worth of clothing, her violin and cello, a few partitures, textbooks and her little bonsai tree, that she proudly placed on the window sill. She stared at her bed with the fresh white sheets, but she wasn’t sure if taking a nap was acceptable on her first day of living in New York. She had everything left to explore.  
First, she walked down Clermont Avenue, along Sakura Park and the Burke library that was opposite a Gothic looking cathedral. She wanted to go inside, but assumed that she’d be asked for a Columbia student ID, so she wandered around the campus for a while until her brother, a senior at Columbia, called to catch some early dinner with her.  
Classes started on Monday and Delilah’s schedule was filled with music history and theory, Cello and violin one-on-one and group lessons, aural skills, Piano lessons and something called Large Performing Ensemble, LPE for short, on Wednesdays and Fridays. She was quite intimidated by that one.  
On Monday afternoon, right after she’d met her new Cello and Violin teacher, Mrs. Feldman, in the very first of many sessions, she sat next to a brunette girl in Music Theory. They went out for a coffee a day later and within three months, she and Fiona had become stark friends. Delilah felt very at home in Morningside Heights. She was surrounded by people with the same passion for music, her brother’s place was a fifteen-minute subway ride away from her dorm and she’d been introduced to the best of New York’s pizzerias. Adrian’s girlfriend Elizabeth invited her to a girl’s trip to her hometown Philadelphia and she met Francis, a fellow Columbia student majoring in psychology, and Anne, Elizabeth’s sister who was already applying to colleges for the next year. It felt surreal to be on the streets of a city that she’d never been in with people that, except for Elizabeth, she’d known for less than three hours. But that was the magical thing about it. It felt like an inauguration into college and independence, the beginning of adulthood.  
Elizabeth and Francis organized the booze while Anne and Delilah ordered Thai food and bought snacks. Then they got drunk in Elizabeth’s and Anne’s parent’s backyard. The day after, they visited the Liberty Bell and Independence Hall. Elizabeth got her legendary bee tattoo that ended up looking like a cricket instead and they took pictures in front of the famous love sign and the Rocky statue. Not that any of them had watched the movies. When she was back in New York, Delilah printed out some of the pictures and taped them to the shelf above her desk. The first personal note in her dorm, except for the new dark blue curtains.  
In December, Adrian and Delilah drove back home to Maine, stopping in Portsmouth to hop into the car of their oldest sister’s husband and sharing the backseat with their two-year-old nephew. Another fours hours later, Samantha, the youngest of the four siblings, and along with the two dogs, stood waving in the driveway. They had never been more excited for Christmas.

Once classes started again, Fiona told her about this guy that she’d been seeing since November. More importantly, she told her about his friend called Michael who was a Percussion major and “totally her type”. Delilah wasn’t aware that she had a type, in fact, she’d only had one boyfriend so far and she didn’t even think that he counted.  
Michael called her a week later and they went to Greensweet, a salad bar on campus, but later alternated between Giovanni’s pizzeria and a taco restaurant. He was nice and sweet and what Delilah presumed to be “totally her type”. He came to her recitals and juries and she went to his. Sometimes they even watched the Tuesday LPEs together. On their three-month anniversary, a Sunday in early April, he took her to the botanical gardens in the Bronx, but it was way colder than expected and they ate Chinese food at his place instead. His two roommates were out of town, or at least outside of the apartment, and they slept with each other for the first time. It was far less exciting than she’d expected, but they got better at it over time. She introduced him to Adrian and Elizabeth a few months into the relationship and they all liked each other. Delilah even went as far as saying that she loved Michael, until they got drunk at a frat party and he told her that he’d been seeing someone else.  
And that had been the end of it.

Chapter Two: Scene II - Then

Delilah was still grieving her first relationship when the next semester rolled around. Adrian had graduated the semester before and started a doctorate, Elizabeth wasn’t sure whether she should keep studying or not, so she’d taken a year off to see how well her business ideas fared. Elizabeth’s sister Anne had started her major in cultural anthropology at Columbia and she was eager to get to know every nook of Morningside Heights and Manhattan. Not that the latter was realistic, but Delilah went everywhere with her that she could think of. For every new place, she learned that there were spaces untouched by Michael, restaurants that they’d never gone to and parks they’d never noticed. She hadn’t talked to him since their break-up right before summer vacation and it was starting to feel a lot easier without him. There had even been a small fling back home with the son of one of her dad’s clients. Highly forbidden, but open houses were supposed to be explored, weren’t they?  
She grinned to herself as she remembered how scandalized her friends had been. “Michael’s definitely missing out,” Fiona had said, followed by a few claps from Francis. Anne had teased her for blushing. Fiona had also split from her boyfriend during the summer, so all of them were single. “And ready to mingle,” as Anne liked to call it.  
Delilah always laughed at that, because it wasn’t true. Ever since Anne had enrolled to Columbia, she’d been infatuated with a boy from her year. A tall, somewhat lanky and “super dreamy” brunette with the same major. He was all she could talk about, but he hadn’t really seemed to notice her that much. Judging from the milliseconds that Anne had spent interacting with him so far, he was a pleasant, generally friendly guy, so it was hard to tell. At least that’s what Anne insisted on. Delilah had only seen him in passing. Sometimes when he walked by on coincidence, Anne couldn’t keep herself from giggling and saying, “There he is! Isn’t he handsome?” And to be honest, Delilah found him quite attractive too.  
It had become everyone’s mission to get Timothée to notice Anne, so Elizabeth had sacrificed her apartment for a party. The party, to be exact. Adrian and his friends bought some booze, Fiona decorated the apartment while Francis and Delilah made a playlist. It was Anne’s job to invite Timothée, so she befriended his friends and told them about her sister’s big birthday bash that they were „totally welcome to come by if they felt like it.“ No one had believed that he would show up, but he did. His friends bought a flamingo shaped balloon on the way and gave it as a present. He made sure to apologize to Elizabeth and thanked her for the invite. It was quite obvious that his friends had been drinking. Delilah couldn’t tell if he had too. She watched him from behind the desk with the music equipment, sipping on her Vodka Energy, as he talked to his friends and made himself a drink, and a bit later when he played beer pong opposite Anne and Fiona. Whenever it wasn’t his team’s turn or he felt unwatched, he started dancing, hesitantly at first but he got bolder as time passed, throwing his arms around and wiggling his hips. Delilah caught herself smiling at his dance moves.  
“How do you think it’s going so far?”  
Delilah jumped at the sudden question. Francis laughed, saying, “You alright there?” and ate the last piece of her mini sausage. Delilah found it hard to tear her eyes away from the bowl full of sausages in her friend’s hand.  
“You brought the whole thing?”  
Francis nodded vigorously, insisting on how good they tasted and offering her one. Delilah shook her head and looked across the room at Timothée. To her surprise, he was looking right back at her.  
“Anyways, as I was saying, how do you think it’s going so far?” Francis said, but staggered suddenly. “Why’s he staring at us?”  
“Maybe he wants a sausage.” Delilah grabbed the bowl from Francis and stuffed two minis into her mouth. Anything to break eye contact.  
“Hang on, Lil. Did you talk to him?”  
“No! Oh my god, no. That’s literally the first time he’s acknowledged my existence.”  
Francis looked between Delilah and Timothée.  
“You do know that he hasn’t said a single word to her yet?” She asked, crossing her arms over her chest.  
“I assumed that. Do you think he will?”  
They looked across the room. He was laughing at something the girl on his team had said.  
“I don’t mean to be a party pooper, but I don’t even think he knows her name.” Timothée shot her another glance.  
“Why does he keep looking at you?”  
Delilah’s heart hurt for Anne. “I don’t think he knows her name either.”

A half hour passed where Delilah didn’t move from her spot while Francis brought more and more snacks from the kitchen. Elizabeth and a friend of hers came over to suggest a few songs and Delilah added them to the queue. Currently, she was looking for a specific song from a band called Marillion.  
“Excuse me, hi there. I have a question.”  
She looked up from her laptop and her heart plummeted; it was him. He looked even more handsome up close. She was staring as he fidgeted with himself and the guy who had been dancing so freely and carelessly earlier seemed like a figment of her imagination. He looked like a nervous wreck.  
“I saw other people do this and I wanted to know if it’s possible to ask for a song?”  
“Yes, sure. Of course,” Delilah said, feeling her body twitch. “Which one?”  
“How about Power by Kanye West? Do you have that?”  
She turned back to her laptop, typing. “Yeah, I suppose. This is literally just Spotify,” she laughed, but it wasn’t funny. “Any other wishes?”  
His eyes lit up. “Oh, I can ask for more than one?”  
“Yeah, you can,” she wanted to add something along the line of You can ask whatever you want, but she trailed off because he was looking at her. She gazed back and he smiled. “I’ll be back then. That last one cost me about fifteen minutes of intense thinking.”


	5. Chapter Two: Scene III - Then

There was no moment to catch her breath because Anne came over immediately after Timothée had left, flailing her arms and asking what he’d wanted.  
Delilah shrugged without looking up from her laptop and said that he’d only asked for a song.  
“Are you kidding me? I’ve been dying to talk to him all night.” She could tell that Anne was drunk when she stumbled over a cable. “Which song did he ask for?”  
Delilah dared looking up for a moment to search for him in the crowd. The party was in full swing, about thirty to forty people had come, but he sat on the couch, his phone in hand while his friends were stapling empty plastic cups.  
“Kanye. But he’s looking for another one as we speak. Just go sit with him and say that the music sucks. He’ll talk.”  
“You think so? He doesn’t look like he wants company.”  
Delilah agreed, but she was not letting this party go by without any sort of interaction between those two. After he had spoken to her, she couldn’t.  
“Listen, just try it. Maybe he’s shy and waiting for you to talk to him.”  
Anne hyped herself up then, saying that she could do it, that she was born to do it and readier than ever. Tonight was going to be the big night.  
In the meantime, Timothée stood up and walked towards the desk, grinning like he was proud of himself. Delilah nudged Anne’s shoulder in warning. Her jaw dropped and she went silent.  
“Didn’t take me fifteen minutes this time!” He chirped once he was fully there, standing above the two girls. None of them reacted, Anne because she was in full shock, and Delilah because she didn’t dare. This was Anne’s chance.  
Timothée’s expression became confused. “Do you still take suggestions or…?”  
When Anne still didn’t answer, Delilah smiled at him. “No, yeah, we do.” She motioned over to her mute friend. “This is Anne. Her sister’s the host. I’m sure you’ve seen her around campus.”  
“Yeah, we have actually!” Anne said suddenly, a bit too loudly. “You’re in my Anthro One seminar, aren’t you?” She held out her hand. “Nice to meet you.”  
He shook it, glancing at Delilah, who wanted to disappear, and back at Anne. “Nice to meet you too. I’m Timothée, but call me Tim.”  
Anne panicked and pointed at the brunette next to her. “And that’s Delilah! She goes to MSM so you probably haven’t seen her around, but she’s, like, my best friend.”  
Timothée looked between the two girls. Delilah became awfully aware of the fact that he was not drunk at all. He didn’t even seem tipsy.  
“Cool, yeah, so that’s that. Nice to meet you,” Delilah shot Anne a look, urging her to keep the conversation going, but she just stared at Timothée, who smiled brightly at Delilah.  
“Pleasure’s mine, actually.”  
“Shit, uh,” Delilah said. Her stomach was starting to turn, and she didn’t know if it was because of the awkwardness of the situation or because she really liked his smile. “So, about that song?”  
“Oh, right.” He showed her a note on his phone and she typed the outlandish name into the Spotify search bar, then added the song to the queue. In the meantime, Anne worked up the courage to say something.  
“What do you think of Spud’s assignment for next week? He’s a total ass if you ask me. Excuse us for having a private life, right?”  
Timothée nodded slightly. “Yeah, agreed. But ask me again on Monday, I haven’t looked into it yet.”  
Delilah gave Anne an encouraging smile.  
“Yeah, me neither,” the blonde replied, then opened her mouth to ask something further, but Timothée turned to Delilah.  
“Did you find it?”  
She affirmed with a quick nod.  
“I didn’t mean to offend your taste in music, by the way.”  
“Oh, you couldn’t possibly,” Delilah said. “It’s quite eccentric.”   
His lips twisted in a crooked smile, like he was suppressing a real one, and he crossed his arms behind himself. The dim lighting made his eyes appear darker than they were. “I guess that’s fitting for someone who attends Manhattan School of Music.”  
Delilah nodded again, slowly this time, because she had no idea how to handle this. She looked at Anne, who had stopped smiling, and mumbled something like, “Yeah, sure.” Then, “So you have the same major as Anne?”  
It was his turn to nod and he grinned at Anne. “I guess none of us ever wants to get a job, huh?”  
Delilah laughed. “See, Anne! That’s exactly what I said, but you had to insist on familial predisposition, hadn’t you?”  
Anne explained that her dad was a Professor at Penn and that she didn’t go there because she didn’t want to be under his thumb. She got in though, obviously.   
Timothée was startled. “Wow, okay. So you’ll tutor me if I need any help?” Anne laughed and promised.  
Relief hit Delilah like a wave. The ice had been broken.   
She asked Anne to take over the music supervision and excused herself to go to the kitchen. She hoped to find Francis or Fiona but stumbled upon Elizabeth instead, who was delighted by the progress in the living room. Then she made herself a toast in the nearly deserted kitchen. As she cut up some cucumber and put the slices onto the cheese, someone said,  
“Now that looks nice.”  
She looked up, confused, and her heart dropped. He was supposed to be talking to Anne. He was not supposed to follow her.  
“Do you think it’s fine if I make one too?”  
She huffed slightly, pretending to be bothered by his presence. “Why wouldn’t it be?”  
He said, “Okay, then,” and strolled over to the toaster where she’d left the bag of toast. A warmth spread through her stomach and she felt guilty. Mostly because he seemed way more interested in her than in Anne, but also because she felt a not-so-small part of her reciprocating the feeling.  
“This is your brother’s place, right?” He asked.  
She cut the toast diagonally. “Yeah. And his girlfriend’s.”  
“Right,” he said quietly and started the toaster. “The birthday girl.”  
She thought about telling him that he was being annoying, following her and everything, but she couldn’t just be outright rude if Anne wanted to date him. They might be seeing a lot of each other in the near future. She strode to the fridge and opened it, asking, “Do you also want cheese and cucumber? Adrian has some other things too. Tuna? Cream cheese?”  
He didn’t want anything else, and they became silent, just consuming sandwiches like any other friend would with her friend’s crush. It was totally ordinary. Right?  
A new song started when Anne came in, obviously looking for him, and she staggered slightly as she realized that he was with her best friend. Delilah shot her a worried glance, mouth full, and Timothée turned around curiously.   
“Listen, Tim. It’s your song!” Anne lifted her hands and pointed behind with her thumbs. Delilah had the uncomfortable suspicion that Anne had wanted to dance with him.  
Timothée still held the knife in his right hand, but he smiled brightly. “Yeah, that’s great! Don’t you love it?”  
Anne said yes, and Delilah grimaced. The chorus hadn’t even started yet. No one could fully tell if they liked a song without hearing the bridge and refrain first.  
She asked what they were talking about and Timothée replied, saying, “Oh, Delilah and I? Nothing really.” Then he asked if she wanted a sandwich, to which she said No, thank you and stared at Delilah, who could do nothing besides looking at her apologetically.  
The clock hit midnight and Timothée’s song was cut off by a loud bang, then replaced with a chorus of Happy Birthday. He mumbled something like, “Right before the first hook” and Delilah snickered, covering her mouth with her hand. Anne looked at her with contempt and left to congratulate her sister.


	6. Chapter Two: Scene IV - Then

Delilah felt bad, so she stayed strictly behind the desk after wishing Elizabeth a happy birthday. Timothée played another round of beer pong and drank a few shots. Fiona and Francis bothered Delilah to play along in the next round, but she didn’t want to, not when he watched the interaction and gestured for her to come over. No, she couldn’t do that to Anne.  
Around one am he asked for another Kanye song and she teased him about Hip Hop being the only genre of music that he knows. He was insulted. “How dare you say that like it’s a bad thing? It’s the epitome of frat culture!”  
“But this isn’t even a frat party though.”  
“Well,” he said, and it became obvious that the alcohol was starting to get to him. “I wouldn’t know because I’ve never been to one. But I bet they’re fantastic.”  
She was reminded of the last time that she’d attended a frat party, and how Michael hadn’t sugar coated anything when he told her that he was sleeping with someone else. A pain shot up her chest and she mumbled something along the lines of, “Sure, definitely.” Timothée didn’t pick up on her tone.  
“I mean, uh,” he trailed off, looking at her desk for a moment. “I presume that they wouldn’t really be your scene. No offence.”  
Delilah straightened up in her office chair, trying to push Michael out of her thoughts. She leaned on the desk with her elbows and stared at the boy in front of her, curious. “Where‘d you get that idea?”  
He shrugged, less confident than before. “For one, you’ve only been away from this desk once to make a sandwich. And is that tea in your cup?” He took a hold of it and read the tag. “Mediterranean peach. Now that’s juicy.”  
She broke into an involuntary laugh, and said, “If you must know, I’m only drinking that because I threw up earlier.”  
“Did you now?” He asked suspiciously, and put the cup back onto the laptop. “So you’re not hiding behind all that equipment because you hate parties but rather because of an upset stomach and halitosis?”  
The corners of her mouth turned upwards. “As a matter of fact, halitosis can be a very isolating disease.”  
“No doubt.”  
Timothée presented a dashing smile and Delilah bit her lip. They were flirting, weren’t they? She dared glancing across the room where Fiona, Francis and Anne played beer pong against Adrian, a friend of Timothée’s and another guy that she didn’t know.  
She pointed at them with her chin. “Weren’t you going to participate?”  
He followed her gaze and shrugged. “Looks like they found a stand-in. Do you mind if I sit with you instead?”  
Delilah panicked suddenly, realising that this was the worst possible thing that could have happened tonight, and she hated herself for enjoying it, for sharing his interest and laughing at his jokes.  
“Look, Timothée, you’re really nice,” she said while getting up from the chair and grabbing her cup of tea. He took a step back. “Under other circumstances, I would, uh,” she stopped herself from saying that she’d love to, and looked at Anne across the room. Then she said that she had to go.  
He looked dejected. “Yeah, of course. I get that. No problem. I, uh, I’m sorry.” He scratched his neck.  
“No! No,” she burst out, “It’s totally not your fault. Like, at all. I’m just, you know,” she shot him an apologetic look and wrecked her brain for an excuse. “I really need to throw up right now.”

The bathroom door was locked, and she had to wait until Elizabeth came out minutes later, clearly drunk like everyone else. She gave Delilah a giant hug, using her as support, and Delilah had to look out for her cup of tea.  
“Steady, Liz. You’re okay,” she soothed her brother’s girlfriend. “You are, aren’t you?”  
Elizabeth hummed in response and Delilah sighed, dragging Elizabeth with her into the bathroom. It was a small and badly lit with grimy, grey tiles. Especially after it had been used by thirty-five people. Delilah grimaced when Elizabeth dropped onto the floor to take a breather. She suspected that Elizabeth had too much of Adrian’s infamous lemon Tequila punch, which always had this effect on her.  
“I’m going to pee now, okay?”  
Elizabeth giggled and told her to go ahead, then inspected the cut on her right hand that she’d gotten from her woodwork the other day.  
“By the way, Lizzie, did that investor ever call you back?”  
“Who?”  
“The one that looked at your bird houses. I thought you wanted to expand?”  
“Oh, yeah,” Elizabeth nodded and chipped at her skin. “Not yet, no. But he said he would once he had a look at my sales statistics. Why do you ask? Did he call you?” Elizabeth looked at her in shock.  
Delilah shook her head and smiled. “No, he didn’t. He doesn’t know me.” She flushed and washed her hands. “But I’m sure he’ll call sooner or later. Your birdhouses are phenomenal.”  
“Lil?”  
“Yeah?”  
“Can you sit with me?”  
She grimaced at the floor again. It was filthy from everyone’s shoes and she didn’t want to ruin her light brown cargo pants, so she offered Elizabeth a hand and said, “Come on up, we’ll go to your bedroom and lay down for a minute. We wouldn’t want to occupy the bathroom for no reason now, would we?”  
The two looked at each other in the mirror and laughed. Three people waited in the hallway, whose only sources of light were the open living room door and a tiny table light in the shape of a seashell that had been a gift from Delilah’s dad. One of the people waiting was Timothée. Delilah avoided his gaze and tried to ignore her rising heartbeat as she exited the bathroom with Elizabeth’s arm over her shoulder. The first in line, a girl with ginger hair that had graduated with Adrian and Elizabeth, and a guy with a British accent asked if everything was alright. Delilah answered with a short nod. She wanted to sneak past Timothée as soon as possible and into the bedroom, but Elizabeth had other plans. She leaped away from Delilah and into the arms of the other girl, mumbling something about wanting to lay in the bathtub.  
The three looked at each other and broke out in a laugh, but Delilah felt Timothée’s eyes on the back of her head and became nervous. How direct would she have to be until he’d stop following her?  
“Can you handle her?” Delilah asked. The redhead nodded and asked British guy to help transfer Elizabeth into the tub, then they disappeared. Delilah locked eyes with Timothée and pointed at the bathroom door.  
“Afraid that’s going to take a while.”  
He grinned shyly and looked at his feet. “That’s okay. I just came to see if you were alright after, you know.” He pretended to stick a finger up his mouth.  
“Yeah, I, uh, I didn’t.” Delilah shook her head and stepped from one foot to the other.  
Timothée took placid steps towards her. She leant back against the wall and he stopped opposite her, leaning against the bathroom door frame. For a moment, they simply looked at each other. Delilah blamed the stuffy air for making it hard to breathe. She said, “It’s quite hot in here,” at the same time that he said something about her tea, pointing at her empty hands, and she looked down. She must have left it on the sink.  
“Well,” she shrugged, “I was quite busy with the host.”  
Timothée grinned stupidly and she squinted at him.  
“What is it?”  
“Nothing,” he said, staring at her. “You think that it’s hot in here?”  
She thought that he might say something like Wanna know what else is hot? My lips on yours, right now and she crossed her arms in front of her chest, cursing at herself. She couldn’t think like that.  
“You don’t agree?”  
“No, no, I do.” He fidgeted with his hair. “I was just wondering if you wanted to catch some fresh air maybe. Together, with me. On the fire escalator, if there is one. Because you’re hot.” He stopped suddenly, looking at his feet. Delilah looked at him, undeterred, and smiled when he lifted his eyes again. “It’s fine. I know what you meant. Come with me.”

He followed her into the bedroom and through the window. Adrian’s fire escalator hovered above a lumpy concrete backyard and faced the neighboring building, so there wasn’t much of a special view. It was freezing though, since it was the end of February and nearing two in the morning.  
“You know, I really shouldn’t be out here,” Delilah said once they’d settled on one of the steps and she pulled out a cigarette from her Elizabeth’s secret stash right underneath the third step. Timothée asked why not as she lit one with the grimy yellow lighter.  
“Mostly because it makes me want to do this.” She grinned as she offered him a cigarette. He took it, along with the yellow plastic lighter.  
“And what’s the other reason?”  
“What other reason?”  
“You said mostly.” He spoke with the cigarette between his lips. Delilah stayed silent for a moment and watched him light it. She thought about telling him the truth, but she couldn’t possibly. Anne would never forgive her.  
“How old are you, Timothée?”  
He met her eyes. “Eighteen. And you can call me Tim if you want.”  
“Well,” she said, “Maybe I prefer Timothée-e-e.”  
He shook his head with a small laugh. “My dad’s French. In case that explains anything.” It didn’t really. Anne had already told all of them that he was fluent in French, and it wasn’t like his last name did a good job at hiding his heritage.  
“You want to know something funny?” Delilah nudged his elbow with hers and searched his eyes again. “My dad changed his name into the French version of it as soon as he was eighteen.”  
He shot her a disbelieving look.  
“Yeah, he just dropped a letter and poof, suddenly he was the coolest guy in town.”  
“That’s weird,” Timothée said, “Usually us French like to add letters.”  
She didn’t know if it was the leftover alcohol in her system or her tiredness, but she wanted to giggle and rest her head on his shoulder, like they did in the movies. In fact, she wanted to remember every single word of their conversation and every detail of his face to gush about it to her friends later. And there was one thing that she knew better than anyone: If you can’t tell your friends about it, you probably shouldn’t be doing it. She pursed her lips and asked where he came from in France:  
“I was born here actually, but I spent most of my summers in a French village near Lyon with my grandparents.”  
If he spoke French:  
“Yeah, but it’s definitely not perfect. Why’s your dad such a big fan of it?”  
She told him that it was more about France itself, and the ties it had with her family’s history. “My great-grandfather fought in Normandy and Paris during the second World War. He fell in love with a French woman and the whole shebang, you know.”  
She told Timothée about all the nights that Dennis “Denis” Belmont liked to spend in his office, either preoccupied with his books and atlases or admiring the glass vitrine that displayed his grandfather’s eleven diaries along with his original sketches and drawings. “His biggest treasures are the pictures of his granddad. They’re all black and white and really old,” she explained. “There’s one with his comrades, one with the French woman and one with my dad from nineteen fifty-six.” She didn’t tell him that her great-grandfather died three years after it had been taken.  
Timothée talked about his summers in Le Chambon-Sur-Lignon, whose villagers had saved thousands of Jews and been recognized as ‘Righteous Among the Nations’ with a whole ceremony in Paris. His grandfather always used to show him the memorial before they went fishing in the early morning. The afternoons he spent playing with the other French kids, most of the time pretending that they were in a movie.  
“I went to this perfomance arts High School and I auditioned for every single play, but I never got a good part,” he laughed and pressed his cigarette butt against the steel banister. Delilah was starting to get cold. “I really want to make it big in acting.”  
“So why didn’t you major in theatre?”  
He thought about his answer. “I guess cultural anthropology sounded more sophisticated.”  
Delilah laughed and puffed out the last bit of smoke. Timothée asked what she majored in.  
“String instruments and composition.”  
He apologised for his ignorance and asked which instruments that entailed:  
“Cello, violin and viola, for the most part. Some piano too.”  
Did she play all of those?  
“I started cello when I was six, then I got around to violin and viola around fifth grade.”  
And what was she planning to do later?  
“I don’t know yet. Maybe something in the film industry, writing scores and so on.” She shrugged and put her arms around herself.  
He looked at her and suggested going back inside. Delilah longed for the warmth, but she felt the least susceptible to be seen by anyone out here. She glanced at her watch. They had been out here for forty-five minutes, which was a suspicious amount of time to be hanging out with a friend’s crush.  
After they climbed into Adrian’s and Elizabeth’s bedroom, Delilah asked if the music had become quieter. She pressed her right ear against the door, afraid that the party had come to an end while they were gone.  
Timothée stuffed his hands inside the pockets of his jeans and looked at her. “Would that be a problem?”  
Anne would hate her. Francis and Fiona would choose Anne’s side. Elizabeth would be conflicted and only be nice to her because of Adrian. “They’re all going to get suspicious if we just waltz out of here.” She pointed between them.  
He lifted his shoulders. “So what? We were just talking.”  
“Well, yes, but they’re not going to get that impression if we come out of the bedroom and no one has seen us in the last hour.” She leaned against the door and took a deep breath, trying to come up with a good plan. Maybe it’d be enough if she went outside ten minutes before him. But what would she say where she’d been?  
“Look, I don’t really get the problem, but most of my friends left when I was waiting for you in the hallway. I can sneak out and you can tell anyone who asks that I left with them.”  
Delilah opened her eyes and looked at Timothée. The concerned expression on his face, the striped shirt tucked into his black jeans and the unquestionable kindness in his eyes as he stared back at her. This moment would become a memory that she cherished later: his willingness to do something for her, to leave this party and his last friends behind and possibly risking a tarnish to his reputation because he didn’t tell anyone or say goodbye to the hosts. Technically he was lying to everyone, and all of that with no idea why.  
“Please don’t tell anyone,” Delilah said with a small voice. He sighed, clearly frustrated. To him it seemed like she was ashamed of being seen with him, which hurt. He nodded and climbed back out of the window, then down the fire escalator.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...some huge challenges await Timothée and Delilah in the next chapter...
> 
> Hope you're still enjoying!
> 
> xxx,  
> shmende


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